


Burying the Dead

by Canttouchthis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Inspired by Music, Music, Philosophy, Piano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-23 00:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30047262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canttouchthis/pseuds/Canttouchthis
Summary: In the rubble of the Room of Requirement, Hermione Granger finds a derelict piano.Over the course of her eighth year at Hogwarts, she finds comfort in mending it.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 25
Kudos: 51





	Burying the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was largely inspred by the song "Burying the Dead". You can find it, as well as other songs that vibe with this fic, on my [Spotify Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2DkaC5oAtrTfpSKMZLQP1d?si=xXDz5MyRSmOdlic_jKJijw&utm_source=copy-link) for this fic. And thank you to [ThusAtlas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThusAtlas/pseuds/ThusAtlas) as always for coming through with the music to make the fic a reality.
> 
> Thank you to [LeilahMoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeilahMoon/pseuds/LeilahMoon) for the art prompt that led to drawing a piano and led to this fic.
> 
> Thank you to [Amarillis39](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amarillis39/pseuds/Amarillis39) for the delightful plot bunny.
> 
> And last, but not least, thank you to [Houseofpercypotter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/houseofpercypotter/pseuds/houseofpercypotter) for beta'ing.

_ 1 _

Hermione’s not sure why she’s here, but she finds herself standing in the remains of what was once the Room of Requirement. She brushes her fingertips along the cracked walls, her eyes darting over the remnants of a millennia of clutter. 

The room is painfully silent, and Hermione tries to recall the way the room’s magic once pulsed through her, the way the lights would flicker delightfully in whatever the room deigned to be.

But now the room is charred; devoured in a moment by Fiendfyre.

It feels small now, contained where it was once endless. 

She walks the length of the room, stepping over disfigured metal and old leather. She doesn’t realize she’s looking for something until she sees it sitting in the corner.

It’s a Steinway upright piano — or it  _ was _ one. It’s recognizable, but is otherwise in a state of disrepair. She presses one of the yellowed keys, wincing at the short off-key note. It sounds murky, as though underwater.

She swallows, her eyes watering as she takes in the cracked instrument, the missing pedals and torn apart keys.

But she plays another note, and hears something in it, realizing something in that moment.

She can fix a piano.

* * *

_ 2 _

Coming back to Hogwarts after the war is harder than Hermione expected. The castle is healing slowly, much like her hardened classmates and professors. 

_ Everything _ is different. She recalls the tension of their sixth year, that foreboding that something was going to happen. She thought she understood grief after Sirius, after Dumbledore…

But something about the quiet and vacant stares of her classmates is different.

She escapes to the Room of Requirement, to her piano. She sits on the ground, surrounded by every book and parchment on instrument repair she could find.

It’s slow going; each key must be restored individually, each string tuned with precision. She’s never been musical, and it takes her a while to recognize the notes, to match the humm from her wand to the musical instrument.

She’s attempting to repair the muffler belt when she hears a crash from the other side of the room.

She’s never been distrubed here before, never once had another person interrupt her work. She’d stopped checking, stopped even considering it a possibility.

She hears a gut-wrenching sob, and the sound of metal being thrown on the ground. 

Hermione walks slowly across the room, her eyes widening as she recognizes Draco Malfoy with his head buried in his knees, sitting along the far wall. His shoulders shake and an almost animalistic cry escapes his throat.

She’s torn; a part of her wants to leave, possibly never return now that her sanctuary has been overrun. But she stays, inching closer and closer, unsure what she’ll say when she reaches him, but unwilling to turn away regardless.

He raises his head, his jaw tightening the moment he catches her gaze. He grips his thighs, his hands shaking, his lips quivering.

“Malfoy,” she squeaks, completely at a loss for words. She noticed him that year, as  _ silent _ as the rest of them, though his is more glaring. He’s somehow grown smaller since the war, his cheeks more sallow, his blonde locks more dull. 

Now, his bloodshot eyes dart between her and the door to his left, as he hastily tries to wipe the errant tears from his cheeks. He looks panicked, so far removed from the cocky boy he once was, and she can’t help but feel sorry for him in that moment.

“Sorry,” he manages out, awkwardly standing up.

“For what?” she asks him.

He freezes, leaning a palm against the wall, his gaze is incredulous. He stutters out, “For bothering you.”

“Oh,” she mumbles. He starts for the door and she doesn’t know why she does it, but she calls out: “Wait!”

His hand is on the doorknob but he stops and turns to face her.

She wrinkles her brow, startled once more by the Draco Malfoy standing before her. His lips are pursed, his eyes narrowed, but he lacks the venom she expects from him.

“What?” he asks, his tone is low. He’s focused on some point in the distance, avoiding her. He’s tense in a way that looks uncomfortable, his shoulders rigid. He’s always been stiff, but this is something more, something that reminds her of the keys lying askew on the piano.

She takes a steadying breath. “You don’t have to go.” She surprises herself with the words, unsure exactly where they came from. She can only imagine why Malfoy has come to this room, and it doesn’t feel right to suggest he should leave. “I meant, you don’t have to leave just because I’m here.”

He nods, his hand still clinging to the door knob, until finally he releases it. 

Hermione turns to her corner, coming back to her piano’s half-shattered keys, letting herself focus on the resonance of the C sharp. When the note hits right and her wand rings out, she can’t help the smile that escapes her lips, and the feeling of relief that courses through her.

When she leaves the room that day, she catches Malfoy with a worn paperback book in his hands, surrounded by charred metal.

* * *

_ 3 _

“What are you doing here, Granger?” 

Hermione jumps, bumping her head on the underside of the Steinway. 

It’s been over a month since their first encounter, and since then, she’s run into Malfoy in the Room of Requirement twice. They never talk; they barely acknowledge one another, other than subtle glances as they come and go. He’s always reading that same book, though she’s never been able to catch the title.

Malfoy is looking curiously at the piano, his gaze stuck on the still bent tuning pin. He mumbles an apology for scaring her as she crawls out from underneath.

She realizes he’s now apologized to her twice this year, both for things which he had no need to apologize for. 

“I’m fixing this piano,” she answers finally, rubbing at the top of her head.

He leans around, gently pressing a finger against the keyboard, his eyes squinting at the instrument. “Why?” he asks, without looking up. 

Hermione frowns, watching him circle the instrument, analyzing it. “I—” she freezes, her lips parted, trying to identify what precisely led her to fixing it. It had seemed like an obvious decision at the time; she had seen the piano and knew it could be fixed; unlike so much in her life that was irreparable, this was one thing that could be mended.

He turns to face her, a single eyebrow raised in question. He looks oddly comfortable, his hand still lingering along the instrument. 

She swallows. “I thought I could fix it,” Hermione finally answers with a shrug.

He nods absently, now crouched in front of the Steinway, looking at the strings and soundboard. “It’s not in good shape,” he says.

She scratches her neck. “You should have seen it before,” she mumbles. “Do you know a lot about piano repair?”

He stands back up and approaches her, hovering only a half-foot away. “Not really. I played a bit when I was younger though. I just figured pianos aren’t supposed to be half-charred,” he drawls.

Hermione has to lift her head to maintain eye contact. She swallows the righteous indignation that sits on the tip of her tongue, instead choosing to say, “I know it doesn’t look great, but I think I can fix it.”

She’s hit with an errant thought, that she and Malfoy have never held this long of a conversation before. That they’ve never in their years in Hogwarts been able to speak in a civilized manner.

He nods, and he looks like he’s about to leave when she blurts out: “Do you want to help?”

His mouth is agape and his hand brushes the book sticking out of his pocket. From this close, Hermione can just make out the author:  _ John Locke _ . 

“You’re reading John Locke?” Hermione asks.

Malfoy shakes his head, trying to shove the book deeper in his pocket. “I — uh. I think I’d like to help,” he tells her, ignoring her second question. He’s shifting from foot to foot, and she wonders why he’s agreed when he’s obviously so uncomfortable.

“Yeah?” she asks, her mouth dry.

“Yeah.”

* * *

_ 4 _

“Do you feel that, Malfoy?” Hermione asks, poking her head out from under the piano.

They’ve been working together for a few weeks. It had started awkwardly; full of half mumbled requests and short replies. But over time, Hermione’s found a sense of solace in working with Malfoy; he has no expectations of her, seems to have forgone all predetermined notions he may have once had.

In a strange way, it’s like she’s made a new friend. 

“I don’t think so?” He furrows his brow, glancing side to side. 

Hermione wipes her hands on her trousers and stands, stepping to a nearby wall and pressing her ear to it. She lets out an involuntary sigh, her shoulders relaxing. “Come here,” she calls out.

He approaches her cautiously, both eyebrows raised at her.

“Do this,” she instructs, pushing herself against the wall. “It’s the magic, I can feel it. It’s coming back to the room.” She shuts her eyes, feeling the corners of her lips turn at the hum that runs through her. 

When she opens her eyes, she sees Malfoy mirroring her position, his expression soft, almost serene. He blinks at her, and he smiles in a way she’s unfamiliar with, so unlike the smirks that had marked him for so many years.

“You feel it?” she asks.

He nods. “It’s incredible,” he says quietly. 

It’s like a hot fire on a freezing day, or a seat when you’ve been standing for too long. There’s a comfort in the vibration that runs through her, a feeling of  _ rightness _ that she hadn’t realized had been missing.

“I wonder if the room will repair the piano now,” she says, frowning at the thought.

Malfoy shifts, slowly pulling himself away from the wall. “I don’t think we can count on it.”

“Yes,” she agrees, barely above a whisper. A feeling of warmth spreads in her stomach, a tangible relief that he agrees. 

The piano sits half-repaired, still missing keys and discolored, but a far-cry from the dilapidated state she first found it in. Doing this,  _ fixing _ this thing has become something important to her, as though in fixing this instrument she’s fixing something more.

“Malfoy,” Hermione starts as they return to their respective repairs. “Why did you agree to help me? In the first place?” She’s always been afraid to ask, that doing so would break some sort of unspoken rule that exists between them. But she feels something shifted in those moments spent listening to the magic, that perhaps now it’s okay.

He looks uneasy, pressing a hand into his pocket and pulling out that familiar book. He hands it to her.

“ _ An Essay Concerning Human Understanding _ by John Locke?” she questions aloud, her mind running through what she knew of the philosopher, and drawing a blank to the specific work she held. “I’m not familiar,” she admits.

His eyes flash in surprise and he takes the book back, turning to a page he’s dog-eared. He clears his throat. “ _ It is therefore worthwhile, to search out the bounds between opinion and knowledge; and examine by what measures, in things, whereof we have no certain knowledge, we ought to regulate our assent, and moderate our persuasions, _ ” he reads aloud and returns his gaze to her; he’s tapping his foot, his hand shaking slightly.

She mulls the passage over in her mind and tilts her head to the side. “You’re trying to learn something new? To — gain a new perspective?” she asks.

He nods and seems to relax at her words. “Something like that,” he says.

She’s curious, both about the book in his hand and about Malfoy himself, though she suspects that the answer to both puzzles may be the same. “So tell me then, why?” she pushes. 

He scratches at his forearm and doesn’t answer at first. She wonders if she’s assumed too much, if what she’d perceived as friendship was really Malfoy looking for penance.

“I’m sor—” she starts but he interrupts her.

“No, don’t apologize,” he mumbles and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “I was willed this — from my cousin, Nymphadora Tonks.”

Hermione’s not sure what to say; another apology sits in the back of her throat but he places a hand up and she keeps her mouth shut. 

“It took me a long time to understand the point of it.” He stops to take a breath. 

She wonders how hard this is for him; to speak with  _ her _ on this, to acknowledge whatever it is that brought him to this room, to this piano in the first place. 

He continues, “John Locke argued that people are not born with any predispositions; that we have something called  _ Tabula Rasa _ , or a blank slate. It’s only through experience that we learn about the world around us.”

She’s beginning to see the importance of such a treatise on someone like Draco Malfoy, who had spent his childhood being indoctrinated by his parents, being told he was inherently  _ superior _ . “And do you believe that?” Hermione asked.

Malfoy sucks on his lower lip. “I didn't want to,” he admits. “But I started actually paying attention to the world around me, rather than simply projecting my own assumptions. And over time it became clear that—” he swallows “—we’re not so different.” His breathing is labored and he’s twitchy, his hands shuffling in and out of his pockets.

“Oh,” Hermione remarks, unsure what to say. For him it’s a revelation, for her it’s obvious. “Is that why you came here that first time…” she trails off.

He pales, looking down at his shoes. “I just — what was the point of all of it? If we’re all the same? If it was all about some monster gaining power? Someone  _ died _ in here, Granger.  _ We _ almost died here. And  _ for what? _ For nothing.” He finally looks up, looking almost relieved, as though he’d been holding onto those words, that melody for so long, and he’s finally had a chance to let it out.

“I don’t quite agree,” Hermione tells him, holding his gaze. “I think that until we went through that war, we were always going to be stuck where we were. Full of centuries old prejudice and corruption. I’m not trying to suggest that your friend’s death was worth it — only that something did come from all of that.”

“What?” he grinds out, his hands clenching at his sides.

“You,” she whispers.

His jaw relaxes and his eyes widen in surprise.

She continues, “I don’t know exactly what happened to you, but this year has been hard. And you—” she wets her lips “—you’re doing something more, trying to be something more. And that’s worth something. That has value. You’ve become a friend to me, whether or not the sentiment is returned… and that has value, Malfoy.” She struggles to keep her neck cool, to stop the blush that threatens her cheeks. 

Malfoy’s frozen and Hermione feels idiotic for speaking her mind, for messing up this fragile — working relationship they had developed. She’s about to run, to make up some excuse and escape the Room of Requirement when he grabs her hand.

“Thank you,” he mumbles.

She’s not sure what he’s thanking her for, and can’t help but stare at their clasped hands. His is warm, soft, so unlike how she would have ever imagined it. Her heart rate quickens and a warmth spreads to the tip of her toes. “What for?”

“For saying I’m worth something. For being my friend,” he says, one side of his lip turning slightly. An errant tear falls from his eye and he finally lets go of her hand to swipe it.

She stares at her empty palm, and wonders why she suddenly feels so cold.

* * *

_ 5 _

“Are you reading any other philosophers?” Hermione asks him one day. They’re taking a break and sitting along the far wall, nibbling at some crisps. She’s hyper aware of how close they are, only mere inches separating them. She considers laying a hand between them, imagining their pinkies grazing, their fingers eventually interlocking.

“Other than Locke? Not yet. Why? Do you have any recommendations?” Draco asks.

It’s become easier, lighter somehow. The piano sits ten feet in front of them, now recognizable as an instrument, but still not quite playable.

“I’ve always been partial to Socrates and the other ancient philosophers,” she answers.

He brushes a hand through his hair, dropping it to his leg so his elbow dangles between them. “How come?” he asks, turning to face her.

These moments seem to arise more and more frequently between them, where there seems so little that separates them in this room, at their piano. Her breath hitches at the intensity of his gaze, at how seriously he takes her and her opinions.

She swallows. “I think you’d like him. He said the only thing you know is that you know nothing,” she explains as evenly as possible.

His brow wrinkles. ‘What does that mean, exactly?”

“Just that you shouldn’t go into any conversation, or any situation for that matter, assuming you know the answer. You should always leave open the possibility that you in fact do not know. So he posits that the only thing we can know for certain, is that we know nothing,” she elaborates, watching his face slowly lighten, the flash in his eyes as the information sinks in.

“So, if I think I know something, I should still ask to verify?” he asks, his voice almost husky.

She can hardly breathe; his arm brushes her own, his hand lightly grazing hers. “It depends,” she whispers.

“On what?” He leans towards her, slowly cutting the space between them.

“I—” she starts, her words cut off when Draco’s lips slant over hers, his hand sliding tentatively into her curls. It’s chaste, their lips barely grazing before he starts to pull away.

She grabs his shirt at his chest, keeping him close, pressing her forehead to his. 

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he admits, his hand falling to her neck, his fingers lingering against her bare skin. 

She struggles to respond, distracted by the depths of his gaze and the huffs of his breaths against the tip of her nose. She clings to his shirt, as though if she loosens her grip he’ll vanish and the moment will flit away.

“I’ve been waiting for you to do that,” she tells him, letting a small smile spring to her lips. She can still feel the hum of the magic that’s beginning to once more permeate the room, imagining the beginnings of a piano concerto playing between them.

She tugs him towards her and kisses him again, gasping into his mouth when his fingertips drift down her back and his tongue pushes against her lips. She sucks his lower lip, finally letting go of his shirt and snaking her hands around him.

He pulls her onto his lap without breaking their kiss, their lips pushing more urgently against one another. His fingers linger at the bottom of her jumper, so close to her bare skin she shivers at just the thought of his touch.

She wants to touch him, to press her hips against his. She wants to see him shirtless, to see his scars, to show him  _ hers _ . She wonders how much he’s healed, how much of him sits in disrepair, and how far he still has to go.

“We should stop,” she manages out, despite the warmth that pooled in the bottom of her stomach, the desire that sits between her thighs. 

“Yes,” he breathes out, though from the way he buries his face in her neck, his lips grazing her clavicle, he seems just as affected.

When they finally manage to pull apart from each other and return to the piano, he lets the back of his hand linger against hers; a promise of sorts, a message that this is something more.

* * *

_ 6 _

It’s nearly May when the piano is finally fixed. The rest of the room is slowly repairing itself; bit by bit it reconfigures, the burnt plastic and bent metal reforming into something beautiful. 

Hermione sits at the piano, the keys immaculate and perfectly even. Each note plays to perfection, the pitch booming at just the right consistency.

She feels strangely empty, sitting at the unblemished Steinway. She’d imagined this moment many times before, imagined the feeling of elation, of pride that would flow through her.

“Hey,” Draco sits beside her. She can feel his gaze, imagines his furrowed brow as he watches her.

“Hey,” she responds softly, offering him a slight smile.

He wraps an arm around her, tucking his hand into her jumper. “You seem pensive today,” he whispers against her hair.

She still shivers at the feel of his breath against her neck, the way his nose tucks behind her ear.

“I’m not sure,” she explains. She leans her cheek against his, basking in his warmth, letting herself take comfort in him.

“You’re not sure what to do now that your piano is fixed?” he suggests.

She shuts her eyes, and shakes her head. “Something like that. I thought it would be an achievement but now… I’m scared of what’s next.” 

His hand runs up and down her side. “I think—” he swallows “—I think that we bury the dead. We finish healing and move on.”

“Bury our dead,” Hermione repeats, letting out a long exhale. “I think I can do that now.”

_ Fin _


End file.
